Absolution
by Cerridwen7777
Summary: In which Sam and Dean deal with the aftermath of Sam's betrayal.  Tag to Asylum.  Rated for language and showering!Dean.


**Yes, it's been done to death, I know. But _I _wanted to do it myself. So here it is. Please review, and as always I answer all reviews at my website. And the boys aren't mine. 'Cause I would bitch-slap Sam for shooting my Deaniebean. What? Did I say that out loud?**

* * *

The only sound was the rumble of the Impala's engine as it tore down the road away from the asylum. The silence between the brothers was like a roaring fire, full of energy, full of danger and harm. Dean steadfastly ignored Sam's doe-eyed stare, his attempts to draw out a conversation, a _discussion_, of all things, about what had just happened.

_You just fucking shot me, Sam, that's what happened._ Dean, of course, never said these words and never would. He would, as always, swallow down his hurt and betrayal and anger. He would push all those feelings down into a hard, dense lump of coal that smoldered in the pit of his stomach, out of sight and out of mind. He would paste a cavalier smirk onto his face and carry on as always, all while the rock salt burned like a son-of-a-bitch in his flesh.

But what burned worse was the memory of Sam's face, of the feral snarl that turned his baby brother into a picture of hate. And the words. The words that spilled out of Sam's mouth like a river that had long been dammed; those hurt the worst of all. Could it be true? Had to be. That sort of rage doesn't just come out of nowhere. Behind every word there was a seed of truth, and that stung more deeply than salt in an open wound.

Dean pulled to a stop in front of their ratbag motel and slammed the gearshift into park. "We'll head out tomorrow. No point in wasting a night we've already paid for," he grunted to Sam, and nearly vaulted out of the car in his haste to avoid any more poignant sighs from his brother. Sam followed at a more leisurely pace, his gaze burning holes in Dean's back. Dean fumbled with the keys to the room, nearly dropping them. An odd, numb sensation was tingling in his fingers, probably a throwback to the fact that his chest was full of fucking rock salt. Or maybe it was from being blown six feet backward through a wall and onto a concrete floor. Then again, perhaps it was being electrocuted by a fucking insane dead guy that was doing it. Hm. A quandary.

Sam finally pulled the keys from Dean's hand and unlocked the door himself. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly, reaching out to touch Dean's shoulder, but Dean ducked away from him.

"Dude, seriously," warned Dean. "I'm tired, I'm crabby, and we're not having this conversation." He heaved his duffel bag across the room onto his bed, biting down a wince at the flare of pain the movement caused.

"Dean."

_Goddamn him and his stupid soft voice, with all his caring and sharing bullshit. Like words ever healed a fucking gunshot wound. _

"I'm takin' a shower." Dean turned away from Sam so he couldn't see the hurt on Sam's face, worse yet the shame. He knew full well that Sam was killing himself inside over what he had done, but Dean couldn't bring himself to absolve him. Not yet. He limped into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, harder than he intended, apparently, because the mirror rattled on the wall.

Dean leaned back against the door, sucking in a breath. He turned to look at his face in the mirror, eyeing every detail, drinking it in, memorizing it. His hair was flecked with dust and cobwebs, and his skin was pale, bloodless. Worst were the haunted hazel eyes that stared back at him. He hated that look, hated the vulnerability there. He narrowed his gaze, willing his defenses back into place, and watched the emotion in his face die. There. Better. But not really better, because even though his mask was back in place, his heart was still twisting away in his chest. The truth of it was that Dean loved his family so fiercely that sometimes it physically hurt. The fear of losing them kept him up at night staring at the ceiling, praying to whatever god was out there. _If you have to take someone, take me._

But he knew the truth now. Sam didn't leave because of Dad. He left because of Dean, because he couldn't stand Dean's devotion to their father, couldn't bear being told what to do by an older brother obsessed with obedience. Another burning stab in his chest drowned out the voice in his head and he closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. He welcomed the pain, embraced it. Who can listen to the voices of doubt when your nerves are on fire?

The salt in his chest was burning and itching. Dean stripped his shirt over his head and stepped closer to the mirror to suss out the damage. His t-shirt had stopped most of the salt from penetrating his skin, but a few pieces had torn through the material and lodged in his sternum, peeking out like little diamonds in his flesh. He scratched at one with his thumbnail, wincing as the pain flared, but he wasn't able to dislodge it.

Well, nothing else for it. Dean shimmied out of his jeans, eyeing with a certain disconnect the trickle of blood on his knee. He hadn't even noticed that he had scraped all the skin off. Nothing like a chest full of salt and a betrayal by a brother to take your mind off your smaller injuries.

He turned the shower on to full heat, watching as steam clouds billowed out over the curtain, then stepped under the stinging stream. He let out a little yelp of shock as the scalding water washed over his chest and began dissolving the salt pellets. Shit, he thought getting shot hurt, but the cure was worse than the disease.

Obviously his brother had his ear glued to the door, because as soon as Dean cried out, Sam called, "You okay, Dean?"

Dean gritted his teeth around the pain, riding out the burning waves, and then replied, "Yes, grandma, I'm fine." He knew that if he didn't answer to Sam's satisfaction, it was likely that the bathroom door would come busting down and Sam would gallop in, caught up in savior-mode. On a normal day Sam worried too much, but after everything that had happened at the asylum, he was likely to fuss over Dean until Dean had to shoot _him_ just to get some peace.

Dean ran his hand over his chest, trying to wash away the sting and the blood and the salt. But in a split second, the hot water and the thick steam and the horror of the day stole his balance and he sank to one knee, head spinning, heart clenching. _No good fainting, Deano, _he thought fuzzily. _Sam'd be in here in a shot and you'd never hear the end of it. _Another wave of dizziness shut his thoughts down, and was followed by a nearly unbearable stab of pain in his chest.

"You should have done it, Sammy. You should have killed me," Dean whispered to the empty room. "I wish you had." A single, hot tear dripped from his chin to swirl down the drain, and he swallowed others away. Another swell of pain washed over him, wrenching a loud gasp from his lungs, which in turn made his chest throb with yet more agony. His vision began to narrow and darken, dimming until all he could see was a faint glow from the naked light bulb over the sink.

A low, throbbing sound in his ears escalated to an ear shattering crash, and suddenly Sam was there, wild-eyed and worried, calling Dean's name over and over again. He reached over Dean's back and turned off the water, wincing as his own skin was scalded by the heat. He snatched a towel from the bar and draped it over Dean, mindful that Dean could be downright bashful, weirdly enough, when it came to that sort of vulnerability.

"Get off me, dude," mumbled Dean, but he was too lightheaded to insist. Sam pulled Dean to his feet and helped him, well, dragged him really, out of the bathroom and eased him to a seat on the bed.

"What happened?" Sam asked in a low voice, mindful to not get too touchy-feely, lest Dean punch him in the arm and call him a pussy.

"Just a little lightheaded. Been a long day." Dean's voice was thick and groggy, but his eyes were starting to brighten a bit as awareness returned. Sam pressed a cold bottle of water into Dean's hand, and Dean rolled it against his forehead, the icy cool of it shocking him back to full wakefulness.

"Dean, can we just talk about this?" Sam loathed the pleading sound in his voice, but he couldn't help it. That his brother was sitting there on the bed, weak and wobbly, thinking that Sam hated him; he couldn't let that be.

"I said no, Sam." Dean's pale face was set with determination and weariness. "It's over and done with, there's nothing to talk about."

"Fine." Sam stuck his chin in the air and squared his shoulders. "Then you don't have to talk, but I'm going to."

"Oh, God," groaned Dean, but the look on Sam's face stopped him cold.

"You want to know the truth? Yes, I'm angry about how you always do what dad tells you to do, because he's robbed you of any chance for a normal life. And because you're my big brother and you're supposed to stick up for me, and when it came down to it, you stood by dad rather than me. When I decided to go away to school and dad told me not to come back, you stood there and didn't say a word. So, yeah, I'm angry." Sam stopped and looked at Dean, at the hurt on his face. "But you know what else? There were so many times that you stood between me and dad, took his anger for me, protected me and lied for me." Sam's voice gave a little quiver, but he didn't care. "You've been more of a dad to me than anybody else ever was." He reached over and touched Dean on the shoulder, and for once Dean didn't pull away. "No matter what, that'll never change."

Dean turned his face away from Sam and swallowed hard, running a hand over his mouth. "You're a pussy. D'ja learn all that on Oprah?" But there wasn't any anger in the question. It was just the old Dean, back and in control. "And get me some pants. I'm flappin' in the breeze here."

Sam shook his head with a bemused smile, knowing that any further discussion was closed. And the two brothers sat there for a long moment in the dying light of day, trying to leave the past behind, but clinging to it, too, because for better or for worse, it was _their_ past. And this was just one more thing that would be forgiven, but not ever forgotten.


End file.
